Atlantic City
by JacksonFarrell
Summary: It's the day before the Minnow's last voyage. Ginger Grant reflects on the past, wonders about the future, and makes plans for the evening. Interior monologue.


Hilton Hawaiian Village

Honolulu

September 25, 1964

Oh, _wow_! What a nice room. What a _view_! Bernie really outdid himself; got to call and thank him when I get back.

Oh, and _flowers_! Wasn't that sweet of him? Just one bunch though. Hmph! You'd think _Randolph_ could've sent some. But if it's true, what I heard, I guess that explains why he didn't.

Two days off. Well, practically - mustn't forget I'm singing tomorrow. Just the one show, though. Thank you, Lord! I'm _exhausted_. I just love performing, and I love performing live, especially for the troops - they appreciate it so much. It really makes a girl feel terrific. But you can only last so long on applause and adrenalin.

That was this year's Miss America in the USO show with me. What a nice kid. Meeting her made me think of the one time I saw the Miss America pageant - in person, I mean. Gosh - can it really be five years? Old Joanie Jo Langford was there. Joanie Jo. . . and Miss Nevada.

Hey - messages on the table. Almost didn't see them next to the flowers. Ooh, here's one from _Randolph_ \- at least he called. He wants to take me to dinner tonight? Well, _that's_ a yes.

I don't know how much I'm looking forward to it, though. I can't believe he's marrying some other girl. After all the time I've given him these past five years! And I thought he was serious - all this time, I thought I meant something to him.

Engaged? Well, we'll just see about that.

Heck, maybe it isn't even true. Eleven years in show biz, you'd think I'd know better than to believe every stray piece of gossip I hear. Well, I'll find out tonight. And if it _is_ true. . . _engaged_ isn't the same as _married_ , now, is it?

I can make him forget her. Whoever she is.

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Awfully nice to hear his voice again. He sure didn't _sound_ like a guy with a guilty secret.

That takes care of tonight, then. What'll I do tomorrow after my performance? Something outdoors, I think. Oh, _I_ know - one of those cute little excursion boats. Three hours on that lovely blue water, in this glorious sunshine and the sea breeze - just what the doctor ordered. I'll call the desk; the concierge can get me a ticket. What a way to unwind after a show.

Shall I have him get two? Maybe Randolph can tear himself away from that dumb boating store for once and come with me.

Well, maybe just one for now. I'll talk to him tonight. If he wants to come - if I still want him to - sure I will, why wouldn't I? - I can always get another one. I wonder how far in advance you need to get them? But that doesn't matter - they'll make an exception for _me_. I just love sailors, I can talk them into anything.

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Okay, that's done. Now I think I'll take a nice cool shower. Maybe grab a nap before dinner.

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Mmmmm. Now that was refreshing. Maybe _too_ refreshing - now I can't seem to sleep. Still too keyed up from performing, I guess. Okay then, I'll just sit out on the balcony and soak up that magnificent view. That should relax me.

Old Joanie Jo Langford. ( _Old_ \- boy, that sure is the right word for Joanie Jo.) Gosh, I've known her a long time. She beat me in that pageant way back in . . . what was it, '52? I can still see her, sashaying around Cedar Rapids that whole week, acting like she had it in the bag. (Bag - ha! _Bag_ is right!) And the really infuriating thing about it was: she was right. She did have it in the bag. Well, naturally; when you're 19, competing against a bunch of 14- and 15-year-olds isn't much of a challenge.

In all fairness, I'm not sure Joanie Jo actually _lied_ about her age to get in; I think the contest rules said the pageant was for "ninth- and tenth-grade girls." That woman is so dumb, she may have still _been_ in the tenth grade at 19. Of course, even if she wasn't lying about her age then, she's been doing it ever since.

The worst part was, I had the lousy luck to be first runner-up. I had to stand there and paste a smile on my face and act all happy for her. I had to _hug_ her. Ick! And when I did, she had the nerve to whisper in my ear:

"Don't worry, hon. You'll win one of these for sure, soon's you grow yourself some breasts."

She wasn't getting away with that. I whispered back:

"I hear it also helps to be above the age of consent."

Okay, it was a cheap shot. ( _Cheap_! Now _there's_ another word for Joanie Jo.) But I was just a kid, and she started it. Anyway, it worked. Her smile didn't waver, but I saw her eyes flare; if we hadn't been onstage, I'm pretty sure she'd have yanked my hair out by the roots.

She's had it in for me ever since. It hasn't helped matters that I'm a star, and she's still working the beauty-contest circuit. Pretty soon she'll be too old for that, and she'll have to go back to Birmingham or wherever and be the local TV weather girl or something. What a shame. . . oh, _yeahhh_.

I haven't seen old Joanie Jo in years. . . come to think of it, the last time was 1959. In Atlantic City.

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"Why, Ginger GRAY-nt - as Ah live and buh-REATHE!"

I looked around. _Oh, hell, it really_ is _her_. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, and wearing a conservative - but form-fitting - navy blue dress, my least favorite person strode toward me at the head of a flying wedge of identically dressed women. She was smiling with every last tooth in her head and looking like she owned the place. Every time I saw Joanie Jo, the Southern accent seemed broader, the manner more syrupy and contrived. What a lousy actress she would have been.

I, on the other hand, am a good actress, even if I do say so myself, and I knew just how to play this scene. Cool, queenly, distant but gracious.

"Oh, _hi_ , Joanie Jo. How nice to see you again."

"Oh, Ginger, congratu-LAY-tionnnns? I hear you got to play one of the beach bunnies in the new _Gidget_ movie! Guess all that Method acting you used to study finally paid off, huh?" I stiffened a bit. _One_ of the beach bunnies? I was playing Gidget's _best friend_! It was practically the most important supporting role!

She turned to her colleagues. "I declare, I have known this girl for - why, it seems like years and _years_! And oh, how badly she always did want to be an actress! Why, I just _knew_ that if she tried hard enough, she'd get _some_ kind of a toehold! And it looks like you _did_ , honeychile!"

 _Okay_ , I thought, _you want to hit below the belt? Two can play at that game_. . . honeychile.

"What brings you here, Joanie Jo? Are you competing this year?"

The smile never faltered - she must use some kind of drug to keep it in place - but she turned red. Joanie Jo had flamed out twice in Miss Alabama pageants. People had started calling her the Sam Snead of beauty competition. Now she was at least 26 and too old.

"Why, no, darlin', though I thank you for the compliment. I'm part of this year's Pageant staff."

"Oh, I see. How interesting. I suppose someone with your _years_ of experience in pageants ought to know something about organizing them."

I was the Visiting Celebrity. Maybe "celebrity" was a stretch at that point, but still. I was going to tour the place that week, meet each contestant, pose for pictures with each one, and offer a few words of encouragement. It would be a morale-booster for the girls and good publicity for me, with a new movie coming out that month. (Although what weird Hollywood logic made them release a _beach_ movie in _September_ , I never knew. No wonder the studio went out of business.) And then I would get to see the pageant from the best seats on the house - the judges' box. Only one drawback: Joanie Jo was conducting the tour.

In spite of that, the tour went off without a hitch. I remember one girl in particular: that year's Miss Nevada. (I never can remember her name, but then I met over fifty girls that week.) I met her on the third day. Miss Nevada was a short, quiet brunette, a graduate of a midwestern women's college I'd never heard of. She had these huge, doelike brown eyes and just about the prettiest smile I've ever seen on a girl.

Miss Nevada told me she'd like to be an actress - not exactly a unique ambition among Miss America contestants. Yet somehow I was just drawn to her, and we talked for about three times the five minutes each girl was supposed to get. She just had so much poise, and she seemed so sensible and self-confident. Meeting me, a real live Hollywood star, she didn't gush, or brownnose, or get nervous and babble, the way some of the other girls did.

Finally, Joanie Jo had to kind of nudge me. "Uh, Ginger honey? I _do_ hate to tear y'all away from each other, but we simply must go ahead with the tour. Time's a-wastin'." I don't know if Joanie Jo has any other talent - maybe _one_ \- but she sure would make a great guard in a women's prison.

Well, Miss Nevada didn't win, or even qualify as a semifinalist - for my money, she was prettier than half of them - and I flew back to L.A. the next day. And that was that, until about three years later.

I came home late one night from an absolutely grueling day at the studio. The director was throwing tantrums all over the place; the producer was having fits; half the cast wasn't speaking to the other half; the technicians' union rep was grumbling; people weren't even hitting their marks half the time. Just another day at the Dream Factory. I was beat.

My roommate, Debbie Dawson, was on location, so at least I had the place to myself. I decided to watch TV for an hour and get to bed. I was too tired to pick something; I would just watch whatever was on whatever channel the TV happened to be on. I wasn't looking for entertainment so much as a sleeping pill.

What was on was a cop show called "87th Precinct." I watched for a little while. Then I sat up and took notice.

The female guest star was my old pal from Atlantic City: Miss Nevada 1959.

 _She really got to act after all_ , I thought. _Isn't that great?_

She was playing this ingenue-type part, a Broadway dancer who got romantically involved with the bad guy. And boy, was she good. I watched the whole thing. The bad guy slapped Miss Nevada around in Act III, and I hated him for it. And when he got shot at the end, I absolutely _cheered_. I think that girl's going to be something, I really do.

Of course, I can afford to wish her well. We're such different physical types that I can't imagine we'd ever be competing for the same part.

I wonder if I'll ever meet her again. It could happen. You know what they say: _No man is an island_.

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Author's note: I know absolutely nothing about beauty pageants.


End file.
